


Love's Austere and Lonely Offices

by lunabee34 (Lorraine)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1379965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorraine/pseuds/lunabee34
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title taken from the Robert Hayden poem "Those Winter Sundays"</p><p>Dean is not underage.</p><p>This is an alternate explanation for John's disappearance at the beginning of the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love's Austere and Lonely Offices

John is not prepared for what he finds in their hotel room. Dean is naked and tied to the bed farthest from the wall. He’s flushed, sweating down into the sheets, and writhing weakly against the ropes at his wrists. John closes the door.

“Dean, damn it, can’t you keep it in your pants for one job?” Sometimes the boy is so foolish, John wonders that he’s made it this far in one piece. Only Dean would pick up a strange girl while they’re hunting a lust demon. _Sam was never this . . ._ , but John pushes away that thought as quickly as he can. 

Dean looks like he’s in pain, his breath coming in shallow gasps and his cock an angry red curve against his belly. When John cuts the ropes, Dean barely moves, his fingers flexing feebly against the mattress where they fall. The flask of holy water John places in Dean’s hand rolls from his grip, and John’s heart jackrabbits in his chest, frantic and desperate. “Son, you’ve gotta do this yourself.”

Dean shakes his head, his eyes half-closed. “I can’t, Dad. I can’t. Hurts. Please. It hurts.” 

John hesitates and then sets his mouth in a grim line. He can help Dean. He can. This is the same as stitching up the gash on Dean’s leg where a spirit threw him into the wall last week, same as dosing him with erythromycin when he caught strep throat in Montgomery. John says this to himself over and over again and does not look Dean in the face. He upends the holy water over Dean’s cock and then jacks his son, slow and steady, his grip sure. Dean moans, his head thrown back and his throat bared. When Dean starts talking—“Oh, god. Feels so good, so good”—John lets himself look. Lets himself watch his hand on Dean’s dick, lets himself watch Dean bite his bottom lip and twist his fingers into the comforter. John thinks, _This is my child. My child._ But when Dean fucks into his fist, hips snapping up to meet John’s strokes, John runs a thumb over the head of Dean’s cock, and Dean comes, hot and slick on his hand. Dean opens his eyes then and they both can see John’s hard, but Dean doesn't say anything and neither does John.

The next week is tense. For the first time since he left, John isn’t sorry Sam’s not around. Dean doesn’t speak to him except to say, “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” but at night, when Dean’s sleeping, Dean says plenty. He moves fitfully, the sheets inching down his torso, breathes out “Dad,” and “More,” into the darkness. John does not touch himself. He will not allow himself that transgression, that luxury.

When the demon is dead, Dean stands closer to him than he has since he was a boy. He puts his hands on John’s waist, on his belt, and John holds himself very still and very quiet and forgets to breathe. 

Dean says, “I think about it all the time. I know you do, too.” Then he drops to his knees, and God forgive him, John lets him. Dean’s clearly done this before and his mouth slides wet and perfect down John’s cock. John cups a hand around Dean’s neck, his index finger marking Dean’s pulse, and when he comes, John chokes out Dean’s name and then watches Dean swallow—once, twice.

After, they don’t talk about what they’ve done and the tension eases. Dean jokes with him again, bitching about John’s music, and he leaves the bar in Nashville with a brunette and doesn’t come back until the dawn through the blinds makes grill marks on the motel wall.

In Memphis, Dean nearly dies. For a moment, John thinks Dean is dead and the fear coiled in his belly is colder and more nauseating than anything he’s ever felt. Then Dean opens his eyes and he’s bruised, but he doesn’t bleed, and John doesn’t think. Just yanks down Dean’s zipper and hunkers in the grass, damp earth soaking through the knees of his jeans.

“I didn’t think you’d . . .” Dean says and then his voice hitches and finally stops. John is clumsy, Dean’s cock thick and awkward in his mouth, his come bitter in John’s throat.

This thing between them is escalating and John knows the inevitable conclusion. He sees it when he closes his eyes—Dean on his hands and knees, the sweet curve of his ass flush with John’s thighs, his hips marked with bruises in the shape of John’s fingers. John sends Dean on his own gig; when he finds a Woman in White in Jericho, John skips town before the job is through, doesn’t tell Dean where he’s gone.


End file.
